Chapter 13 Ophelia
I don't look back. Every cell in my body wants to—demands to—but the smarter part of me knows: if I look, I'll trip. If I trip, it's over. The trees close around me in a ribcage of black limbs and too-bright moon, the ground a tangle of roots and vines.
My dress catches on every fucking twig, every indent, every tooth of the forest. I rip it free and run harder, not caring what I leave behind.
The crown of poppies is gone in the first couple minutes.
I feel it tug from my scalp, spill petals down my neck, but I don't slow to retrieve it. Let the petals mark my path; maybe he’ll follow them, like Hansel and Gretel.
My lungs burn. The air is so cold it knives my insides, leaving each gasp wet and raw.
I taste copper on my tongue, salt and blood and snot.
I wipe at my mouth and the back of my hand comes away red—no way to tell if it's from my nose or the new cut on my lip or the gash across my palm from the ritual.
Branches whip my arms, my legs. I lose feeling in the soles of my feet from the cold, or maybe just from running so long I’ve forgotten what not-hurting feels like.
Every step is a lesson in pain: a thorn rips my calf, a stone splits the skin above my heel, my ankle rolls and nearly sends me down but I catch myself on pure panic.
I hear him, his footfalls, his breathing. "You can't escape me, Ophelia. You're mine!" Echoing through the woods before a cackle of laughter sounds off.
Now he’s not bothering with silence. He wants me to know he’s coming. It’s all part of the game.
I veer left, into a thicker clump of underbrush, and immediately regret it.
A bramble rakes my shin, pulling a white-hot flash across the flesh.
The dress snags. I try to jerk it free, but a whole sleeve tears off at the shoulder, leaving my arm bare to the cold.
I keep running. The fabric flaps behind me like a flag of surrender.
I am not going to surrender.
I am not.
The moon is a flashlight, blinding and pitiless.
It paints the thin layer of snow in patches so bright they sting, and in every one I see the stains I leave behind—blood, sweat, a streak of mud where I fell the last time.
I have no idea how long I’ve been running, but my throat is raw and my breath comes in shudders now.
The world narrows to three things: the drum of my pulse, the ache of my muscles, and the constant, growing presence of him.
Somewhere behind me he shouts, "You're slowing down, baby! Let me help you." His voice is bright and easy, like we’re flirting in the courtyard instead of playing the oldest, ugliest game in the world.
A surge of rage pushes me through another patch of blackness.
I hit a log, go sprawling, and catch myself with both hands.
My other palm opens up on a stone, the pain sharp and dizzying.
I look at it: the blood wells up, hot and bright, running down my wrist in a line that is weirdly beautiful in the blue-white dark.
Keep moving.
I push off the ground and limp forward, ignoring the way my ankle is starting to balloon.
Every inch of skin is on fire now, scraped, bruised, raw.
My hair is loose, sticking to my face, plastered to my neck with sweat.
The only thing holding me together is the hate—pure, unfiltered hate for the boy hunting me, for the Board who made this happen, for my own fucking father who signed my life away for a stack of chips at the wrong table.
The woods open up to a rocky patch. I see the creek ahead, the water black and slow under the moon, ice already forming on the banks. If I can make it, maybe I can use the current to lose my scent. Maybe I can hide under a shelf of stone and let him thunder past.
Or maybe I'm just buying myself another minute.
I should just drown myself.
I stumble down the slope. My feet slip on gravel, and I go down hard, this time landing on my tailbone.
The shock travels up my spine and explodes in my skull.
For a second I can't see, can't move, can't even breathe.
All I can do is listen—to the sound of my own sobbing and the crunch of boots on the ridge above me.
He’s closer. So much closer.
My hands shake. The cut on my palm is worse than I thought, and for a second I just stare at it, at the way the skin flaps open, at the way my own blood glistens in the light.
The world goes soft, grey at the edges.
Get up. Get up.
I force myself to my feet and half-walk, half-crawl to the creek. The water is so cold it might as well be acid. I plunge both hands in, numb them out, watch the blood float away downstream. My heart thuds so loud I think he must hear it even over the running water.
I think about what comes next.
If he catches me, he’ll ruin me.
If I run, he’ll just ruin me slower.
I don’t know what’s worse.
I stare at the water again, watching my own face come undone in the current. I think of Caius—his mouth, his eyes, the way he never looks away even when I’m screaming at him. The way he talks to me like I’m the only person in the room, the only one who matters.
I want to kill him.
I want to kiss him until I can’t breathe.
I want him to die with my name in his mouth.
I splash the water on my face, scrubbing at the dirt and blood.
The cold numbs everything, makes me feel clean for a second.
I remember the hands of the nurse in the gym, the way they pressed into my hips, checked my pulse, measured the width of my pelvis like it was a doorway to something sacred and ugly.
I remember the voice of the Board: “Suitable for breeding. Adequate for union.”
Is that what I am now? Just a vessel? Just a thing to be hunted and claimed and broken down until there’s nothing left but the right parts?
I look at my hands again. They’re trembling, not from fear, from need. From some awful, animal desire to belong to someone, even if it’s just for a minute.
I claw at the wound on my side, making it bleed again. I want him to see it, to know what it cost to chase me this far.
The water runs red and clear. I watch it until the color fades.
“Come on then,” I mutter. “Do it. Fucking finish it.”
The woods are quiet. The only sound is the river and the animal in my chest.
I press my palm to the wound, feel the heat of my own blood. My fingers slide under the edge of the torn dress, press against the bruise flowering over my hip. I wince, but I don’t stop. I want to remember this pain. I want it to matter.
The cold is fading now, replaced by a deep, slow ache. My heart hammers out a rhythm that feels like hope and horror all tangled up together.
I push to my feet, dress hanging off one shoulder, blood dripping from my hand. I don’t bother to look for him.
I know he’s there.
I know he’s waiting.
And I know, with a sick twist in my gut, that I want him to find me.
I look up, scanning the opposite bank for anything that could hide me.
There’s a dip under a fallen tree, a shadow where the moon doesn’t reach.
I stagger across the water, soaking my feet and the hem of what’s left of my dress.
My whole body goes pins-and-needles with the cold.
I hunker down under the log and pull my knees to my chest, trying to steady my breathing, trying to disappear into the roots and the moss.
For a moment, there’s nothing. No sound but the water and the faint hiss of my own pulse.
Maybe I lost him.
Or maybe he wants me to think I did.
I press my hand to my mouth to stifle the sound of my breath. The world slows to a crawl.
That’s when I see it: a flicker of white, high on the ridge. His shirt, loose under his jacket, bright as bone in the night. He stands there, hands in his pockets, just watching.
He could have caught me already. He’s letting it build.
The suspense.
The humiliation makes my teeth ache. I want to scream at him, throw rocks, anything to show I’m not scared, but I know what he wants. He wants the break. He wants me to shatter on my own, so he can be the one to put the pieces back in whatever order he likes.
The cold creeps in, spreading from my feet up to my knees. My teeth start to chatter. I clamp my jaw shut, but the tremor is everywhere now: in my thighs, my chest, even the roots I’m hiding behind.
If I move, I’ll make noise. If I stay, I’ll freeze.
I make the call. I stand up. I don’t look at him. I limp-run parallel to the creek, deeper into the woods, not thinking about the direction, just the distance.
The trees thin out. It’s brighter here, the ground slick with dead leaves. I’m not fast anymore. My legs won’t do what I want. I feel the dull thud of each footfall up my shinbones, the way my ankle is now twice the size it was before.
Behind me, I hear him descend the ridge. He’s not running—just walking, measured, every step a countdown.
I know I can’t outrun him. I can’t outfight him. But I can do one thing: I can make sure he never forgets what it cost to catch me.
I keep running, slower now, the world getting fuzzy at the corners. The woods bend away from the creek, sloping up, every step an uphill battle. My breath is smoke in the air. I want to stop. I want to lie down and let the frost eat me from the inside out.
But I keep moving.
Because if I stop, he wins.
And if he wins, I lose everything.
The sky is lighter now, the first hint of dawn. The trees throw long shadows, like bars across the ground. I pick my way through the last stand of brush and collapse at the top of the hill.
My heart is a dead thing in my chest, barely beating. My hands are numb, my feet blocks of wood. I can’t feel my face.
But I can hear him.
He’s close. Closer than ever.
His voice, almost gentle: "You look cold, O. Want my jacket?"
I spit blood onto the leaves. "Eat shit, Caius."
He laughs. The sound is warm, alive, and I hate how much I want it to keep going.
He’s at the bottom of the hill, across the creek, not coming any closer. Just watching.